


a very old song

by Anonymous



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Axel Is Not Nice, Canonical Character Death, Chain of Memories, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: quiet, lifeless - there is no fun, no excitement to be found. yet.you slant your gaze to the ceiling, your grin fanged. you’ll have your way.---the story of the organization's assassin in castle oblivion.





	a very old song

**Author's Note:**

> com!axel is my absolute favorite axel, so i felt like writing something from his perspective.

you arrive without fanfare, without glory, comrades at your side. the castle is like everything else in the organization: monochrome, neat, slick. _boring_. the sounds of your footsteps echo down the long, empty hallways, black coats fluttering behind you, a stain against the pristine white interior.

quiet, lifeless - there is no fun, no excitement to be found. yet.

you slant your gaze to the ceiling, your grin fanged. you’ll have your way.

\---

you’re posted to the upper levels of the castle, under specific orders as the keyblade hero makes his way through the halls, unaware that he is more labrat than human in this memory maze.

you play your role; you charm the hero, you tease the villains, you stay two steps ahead of the game that no one’s aware they’re playing but you.

everyone has a story. some just know it better than others.

\---

when you’re alone, you _write._ sharp scribbles of your observations, of your actions, meant for the eyes of your beloved back home.

here, you are his attack dog; here, you are his right hand, casting holy fire where he cannot. he creates the plays, and you move the pieces, a devastating duo, playing a very old song.

here, you are his but you are also yourself, your own self. you are not a bit tamed, owned, and you will do as you please; you will play your favorite notes as long as you like.

_the fun is about to begin,_ you write. you press the paper to your lips, kiss it until the edges burn.

\---

tension grows like a weed - prickly, unwanted, with such deep roots. it’s easy to sit back and allow the accusations to fly on their own ( _replica, failure, traitor_ ), but you give your two cents where you think they count best, like a match to gasoline.

they snap at each other, and you conceal your scarlet letter against your chest.

_assassin._

eliminate the traitors.

your fingers itch in your pockets; it’s only a matter of time.

\---

patience pays off when marluxia gives you the order.

funny thing about orders - you’ve never liked them, your whims too spontaneous, too wild to be controlled by words on a doctrine. but you know how to play the game, know when to bow your head and croon _yes sir_ when it counts, when the master has no idea who really holds the chains until they’re wrapped around their throat.

and so you smile, a clown with knives up his sleeve. _no taking that back._

_\---_

maybe, in another life, you would have reservations about what you’re going to do.

but it doesn’t matter. the old you is dead, long live the king assassin, the one who stares into the face of a man he’s known since he was a gangly, fresh-faced teen and feels _nothing_.

nothing, except a feral instinct, the executioner’s joy.

with a snap of your fingers, it’s all over.

you can feel the flames of death warming your face, casting you aglow, and the thrum of adrenaline almost feels like a heartbeat.

(you forgot what it was like to feel alive.)

the boy in front of you with a face (un)like the face of a boy back home looks at you like you’re a monster. he isn’t wrong.

\---

_i killed a man today_ , you write. _wish you were here, baby._

\---

your fingertips are still burning when marluxia and larxene find you.

twin snakes from eden, they coil around you, inviting you to share in their brand of poison. there are many ways to partake in their kind of intoxication, but you choose to lick it off their lips, and treason has never tasted as sweet as it does when there’s writhing bodies and hungry hands involved, gluttonous and divine.

you think of back home, of the one who awaits you -

he’ll understand, you’re sure, as you allow the snakes to swallow you whole.

(after all, this is _your_ song, and you will play it as you wish.)

\---

the castle is a war zone, bodies and fire and screams. you weave clever lies, you free the caged bird; you keep some secrets for yourself as the world burns around you.

a howl echoes from the basement, and you hum a merry tune as you fix your hair and dig dried blood from beneath your fingernails.

\---

marluxia is not the first spurned lover of yours that you have encountered, but he is the first you intend to murder, which makes him, in your eyes, rather special.

you make sure to tell him this - a little something to remember you by, for however long he has left.

a deadly dance, you flirt with words and weapons around each other. you should have done this sooner, you think as your chakrams hit his scythe; nothing screams foreplay like trying to murder the one who shared your bed.

but your dance is cut short by the kids, tactfully summoned by marluxia, and you roll your eyes.

_what a tease._

sora swings his blade back in challenge, and you swirl your chakrams; you’ve never said no to a fight.

\---

it’s easy to fake your death when you’ve already died.

hidden away, you allow the keyblade hero to finish off marluxia.

after all, there’s still one more left.

\---

when you were sixteen, ienzo was eight and liked following you around the castle, all shy, doe eyes and oversized clothes.

now you are twenty-six, and no longer do you see the quiet little boy who looked up to you.  all you see is zexion; all you see is _threat_.

and you know what to do with threats.

you croon your faux apologies as the replica chokes the life out of zexion, swallowing his essence like a plant does the sun.

another notch in your killer belt, another lie to your repertoire. it’s as easy as that.

\---

you return home, the sole survivor with a terrible secret and crooked grin. the others must suspect you, but they have no proof; they may think what they want.

and the only one that matters seeks you out that night, and you slither into his arms, laughing, let him lick poison and blood off your lips.   _did you miss me, baby?_ you tease as he backs you up toward the bed, eyes like flint. _i have so much to tell you._

and that time will come later. for now, you dig your fingers into his shoulders, tilt your head back, and grin at the ceiling, teeth bared in victory.

another page turns; the song has only just begun.

 


End file.
